“I want you to be happy, Marcus.â€
Happiness.
What was it? Happiness: an elusive ghost of an idea that pitted everyone’s lives, leaving a void that all felt compelled to fill. The emptiness that existed in its absence was like a distant wail that nagged at the edge of one’s thoughts, oft leading one down a dark alley to despair. Some hunted for it with ambitious precision, desperate in their hope that things like wealth, power, or love would bring them this abstract trophy. It was a lie, like a mirage in the desert. Some might swear to have seen it, hovering just out of their reach. But it was envy that distorted their vision; they would see it upon others like an invisible aura, like the waves of heat burning off the sand.
Jameson Taeros could never recall ever feeling truly happy. There was always somewhere else he wanted to be, some other trouble that loomed on the horizon, or some other person that was standing in his way. He had always looked to those shadows of uncertainty and marked them in his mind. They were just obstacles to be eliminated or conquered. He had always prided himself in identifying his place in the world and learning about others, so that he could do what was needed to elevate himself. He enjoyed this game, and even the smallest victories he acquired along the way eventually amassed into what he considered was his peak of wealth and power.
So how did it all fall apart?
“You have run out,†a sultry voice nudged Jameson from his reverie. A dark-skinned Elezen clothed in nothing but a small strip of silk wrapped around her hips leaned across his leg and sprinkled a pinch of herbs into the small metal flask next to him. Only then did the Midlander notice that the tendrils of heavily scented smoke had given way to withering fibers and he could feel the edges of his senses sharpening again. But once the dried roots were dropped into the ornate vase, a quiet hiss of the burning plant heralded a new fountain of smoky serpents as they began to spill back out into the tented room.
“Are you hurting…?†The woman laid her hands upon his bare chest, pressing her breasts against him. “I can replace the noise. This will flush out your head.â€
Jameson barely heard her gravelly whisper. He tilted his head backwards against the pillows, just as the Duskwight leaned in for his lips. The female only smirked at the subtle rebuff, then proceeded to greet the underside of his chin with her tongue, slowly working downward toward his chest. The smoke began to cloud the air around them, unable to dissipate under the canopy of silks that hung low from the ceiling. The flickering light of a candelabra was further dimmed by the thick air, although it provided just enough illumination to outline the naked curves of the woman on top of him. But the once-renowned Monetarist of Ul’dah paid no mind to his surroundings nor the rousing sensation that rose from the rest of his body. Only the intoxicating scent of burning milk root pushed at his consciousness, sending this thoughts plunging back into the pool of memories and reflection.
Lazarov. Deneith. Melkire.
Those were the names that ruined him. After the years he had spent carefully navigating through the Ul’dahn maze of schemes and lies, somehow he had let a pirate, an ex-Sultansworn, and an ex-Flame undo all that he had worked for.
It was because of her.
Jameson wanted to lay the blame on someone else. The thought that he had underestimated Lazarov’s expansive influence upon the seas, Deneith’s willingness to recruit spies and civilians against him, and the Flame’s readiness to commit murder without even a trial… they had all caught him unprepared.
He had lost focus. It was likely his paranoia, but it seemed the Jewel wanted to collect all the heat of the Thanalan sun and focus it right upon him. Someone had dared to try and stand up to the Monetarists’ power and it was put upon him to eliminate the threat. At the time, he had welcomed the opportunity: finally a stage upon which he could shine! In retrospect, he should have sent assassins earlier. There were other methods, crueler and dirtier means to accomplish what had to be done.
But Jameson thought himself too clever. He had gone the slower, more methodical route. He decided upon a defensive strategy, a lawful one no less, relying upon the Ul’dahn law enforcement to apprehend the outlaws that were threatening Monetarist shipments. The Sworns did not deliver. And the Flames were just employed thugs for Raubahn. Even now those mistakes pained him.
But was it his lapse in judgement that soured his pride... or the possibility that he had stayed on that course for the sake of a mere woman?
“I want you to be happy, Marcus. You deserve more than a woman who cannot return your affections.†He could recall Melia’s face, the tears running down her cheeks. Her beautiful, sad eyes were framed by her auburn curls as she broke his heart and wedded another man.
After Melia, Jameson had sworn never again. Never again would he risk humiliation and failure for the sake of a woman. And yet, he carried her picture close to his heart, hidden within a golden pendant even after all those years, did he not?
Was he one of those sentimental fools he so despised all along?
"You have given me all I could ever want. I merely wish to meet with your approval."
The memories of another woman’s voice and the vision of another set of auburn locks returned to him yet again. The scent of the desert that lingered in her hair seemed to be woven into the smoke somehow, and he could imagine the green eyes that always regarded him carefully from beneath those long lashes.
He believed that Coatleque Crofte was a kindred spirit: a creature who had clawed herself out of a pit of misfortune with her eyes directed upwards at greatness. Someone who was made of ambition and grit as he was. It must have taken such perseverance to rise so high from a broken past that was hers. Why didn’t she want more? As he did?
She was nothing like me.
He remembered his deep disappointment when she admitted that she held no further ambition, that she herself was amazed to have gained such authority. A highly ranked Sultansworn serving the Sultana, answering to Jenlyns himself, Coatleque seemed befuddled as to how she had stumbled upon such a position of power. All the things that drew him to her at the start, had proven false. And yet…
She loved me.
Jameson hissed as he felt the bite of incisors upon his skin. He took a handful of hair and pulled the Duskwight off of him. Her teeth gleamed white as a hungry smile split the Elezen’s dark face. That look of lust in her eyes, it was one he knew well. He had seen it in so many others, for it was an easy thing to manipulate. And yet, he had no inclination to take part in such a diversion now.
“If you like it violent,†the woman purred as she clawed her way up his chest, her nails drawing red lines upon his flesh. “We can play rough and tumble.â€
The Midlander simply sneered at her.
“Just why are you here, lordling?†she barked back impatiently. When he did not answer, she snorted and rolled off of him, grabbing for a thin wooden pipe, taking a deep draw of it. As she exhaled the scented fumes again, her vexation melted off her face.
Jameson could still feel the thin rows of welts where her nails had raked against his torso. The Duskwight had not been the only woman to mark him so.
I could have come to love her, he tried to convince himself, his eyes fluttering closed. The vision of auburn locks washed away like ocean waves, leaving behind a field of golden hair, one that he had pulled free from their prison of tight braids. He could recall the softness of her bared shoulders, the prominence of her collarbone, and the fullness of her breasts. And yet, there was no stirring of lust within him.
“Pity is the death of desire.â€
In the moons that they had slept beneath the same roof, Edda Eglantine had seen him brought low, trembling upon his knees. The pains of withdrawals from whatever cursed alchemical toxins Banurein had pumped him full of had robbed him of his precious control through many nights. And Edda had discovered him on one such an occasion despite his efforts. He hated showing such weakness in front of anyone, much less one he was engaged to marry. But then that exasperating enigma of a woman would show glimpses of wisdom and strength where he had expected none.
"I do not pity you. I do not pity myself. Pity is for those who do not fight."
The marriage to the Eglantine was only the first step to his return. After losing everything in Ul’dah, he had come to Ishgard to start anew, empowered by his engagement and invigorated by fresh opportunities. He was ready to play the game again, he was ready to regain what was lost. It was in his blood.
“Favor for favor.â€
Why had he not sent Coatleque away when she found him again? She would have only dragged him down, like links of chains wrapped around his ankles as he tried to swim to shore. Why had he not cut himself free of the woman? He needed to only say the right words. Even when he had returned from presumed death, and revealed his secret engagement to another, the damned Sultansworn refused to leave his side. He told her that he was engaged. He told he intended to make his marriage work for Edda's sake. And yet, he did not send her away.
It was then that Jameson rose and grabbed the Duskwight by the shoulders, throwing her down against the pile of pillows. The woman’s smile gleamed with impatience and she arched her back in anticipation. But it was not the view of the woman’s naked form that fed the fire that now burned in his chest. He leaned in, his body knew the motions; but it was another place, and another woman that he saw before his eyes.
Was the tease the game or the consequence? Was it worth the fall? He always loved taking risks, playing both sides. He had never wanted to make Coatleque a mistress, and yet the thought of her by his side, it pleased him. Perhaps his past was the weakness. He remembered enjoying the day they had spent in Fallguard. There was an air of comfort, warmth, and familiarity that brought back memories of their time together in the desert city. Flimsy things they were, he thought them unimportant to him, and yet they returned to him all the same to pull at his emotions.
“When I first came to you that night at the Bismark. It was not for distraction.â€
Then she shattered it all to pieces with her confession.
All those nights, all those talks, all the secrets they had shared, the violence, the laughter, the intimacy… they were all a lie. She did it to help his enemies break him.
He did not think. His past had been war. His reflex had been sharpened by conflict and ambition. And he had learned, painfully so, how he would pay for indecision born of empathy. Never again.
There was much blood upon her naked pale flesh, flowing freely from the deep cut upon her neck. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, and even as they began to lose their color, she stared to him. What else could he have done? She had betrayed him. The one woman he thought he could trust above all others, the first woman to whom he had confided in about his past, his insecurities, his plans for the future. They had even spoken of children...
What else could I have done?
It was with a guttural gasp that Jameson stumbled back, falling ungracefully backwards onto the floor. The Duskwight had been writhing beneath him, but he had been deaf to her moans and cries. His chest rose and fell with desperate breaths like a fish out of water, and his amber eyes stared in disbelief at the naked woman in front of him. There was no blood that soaked the silks around her.
The Elezen propped herself upon her elbows and gave him a perturbed look. “Perhaps you have had too much of the milk root, lordling.â€
“Get out,†he growled.
“But we were just getting to the--â€
“Get out!†he screamed, hurling the metal vase at the Duskwight. She bolted to her feet, cursing at him loudly in a tongue he did not bother to try and recognize. She snatched up the scattered pieces of clothing and left the room in a hurry.
For a long moment, no sound rose to the silk draped ceiling except heavy, stuttered breaths. But when the distant peal of the morning's second bell faded to an echo, the quiet muffled sounds of his weeping filled the heavy silence.
Happiness.
What was it? Happiness: an elusive ghost of an idea that pitted everyone’s lives, leaving a void that all felt compelled to fill. The emptiness that existed in its absence was like a distant wail that nagged at the edge of one’s thoughts, oft leading one down a dark alley to despair. Some hunted for it with ambitious precision, desperate in their hope that things like wealth, power, or love would bring them this abstract trophy. It was a lie, like a mirage in the desert. Some might swear to have seen it, hovering just out of their reach. But it was envy that distorted their vision; they would see it upon others like an invisible aura, like the waves of heat burning off the sand.
Jameson Taeros could never recall ever feeling truly happy. There was always somewhere else he wanted to be, some other trouble that loomed on the horizon, or some other person that was standing in his way. He had always looked to those shadows of uncertainty and marked them in his mind. They were just obstacles to be eliminated or conquered. He had always prided himself in identifying his place in the world and learning about others, so that he could do what was needed to elevate himself. He enjoyed this game, and even the smallest victories he acquired along the way eventually amassed into what he considered was his peak of wealth and power.
So how did it all fall apart?
“You have run out,†a sultry voice nudged Jameson from his reverie. A dark-skinned Elezen clothed in nothing but a small strip of silk wrapped around her hips leaned across his leg and sprinkled a pinch of herbs into the small metal flask next to him. Only then did the Midlander notice that the tendrils of heavily scented smoke had given way to withering fibers and he could feel the edges of his senses sharpening again. But once the dried roots were dropped into the ornate vase, a quiet hiss of the burning plant heralded a new fountain of smoky serpents as they began to spill back out into the tented room.
“Are you hurting…?†The woman laid her hands upon his bare chest, pressing her breasts against him. “I can replace the noise. This will flush out your head.â€
Jameson barely heard her gravelly whisper. He tilted his head backwards against the pillows, just as the Duskwight leaned in for his lips. The female only smirked at the subtle rebuff, then proceeded to greet the underside of his chin with her tongue, slowly working downward toward his chest. The smoke began to cloud the air around them, unable to dissipate under the canopy of silks that hung low from the ceiling. The flickering light of a candelabra was further dimmed by the thick air, although it provided just enough illumination to outline the naked curves of the woman on top of him. But the once-renowned Monetarist of Ul’dah paid no mind to his surroundings nor the rousing sensation that rose from the rest of his body. Only the intoxicating scent of burning milk root pushed at his consciousness, sending this thoughts plunging back into the pool of memories and reflection.
Lazarov. Deneith. Melkire.
Those were the names that ruined him. After the years he had spent carefully navigating through the Ul’dahn maze of schemes and lies, somehow he had let a pirate, an ex-Sultansworn, and an ex-Flame undo all that he had worked for.
It was because of her.
Jameson wanted to lay the blame on someone else. The thought that he had underestimated Lazarov’s expansive influence upon the seas, Deneith’s willingness to recruit spies and civilians against him, and the Flame’s readiness to commit murder without even a trial… they had all caught him unprepared.
He had lost focus. It was likely his paranoia, but it seemed the Jewel wanted to collect all the heat of the Thanalan sun and focus it right upon him. Someone had dared to try and stand up to the Monetarists’ power and it was put upon him to eliminate the threat. At the time, he had welcomed the opportunity: finally a stage upon which he could shine! In retrospect, he should have sent assassins earlier. There were other methods, crueler and dirtier means to accomplish what had to be done.
But Jameson thought himself too clever. He had gone the slower, more methodical route. He decided upon a defensive strategy, a lawful one no less, relying upon the Ul’dahn law enforcement to apprehend the outlaws that were threatening Monetarist shipments. The Sworns did not deliver. And the Flames were just employed thugs for Raubahn. Even now those mistakes pained him.
But was it his lapse in judgement that soured his pride... or the possibility that he had stayed on that course for the sake of a mere woman?
“I want you to be happy, Marcus. You deserve more than a woman who cannot return your affections.†He could recall Melia’s face, the tears running down her cheeks. Her beautiful, sad eyes were framed by her auburn curls as she broke his heart and wedded another man.
After Melia, Jameson had sworn never again. Never again would he risk humiliation and failure for the sake of a woman. And yet, he carried her picture close to his heart, hidden within a golden pendant even after all those years, did he not?
Was he one of those sentimental fools he so despised all along?
"You have given me all I could ever want. I merely wish to meet with your approval."
The memories of another woman’s voice and the vision of another set of auburn locks returned to him yet again. The scent of the desert that lingered in her hair seemed to be woven into the smoke somehow, and he could imagine the green eyes that always regarded him carefully from beneath those long lashes.
He believed that Coatleque Crofte was a kindred spirit: a creature who had clawed herself out of a pit of misfortune with her eyes directed upwards at greatness. Someone who was made of ambition and grit as he was. It must have taken such perseverance to rise so high from a broken past that was hers. Why didn’t she want more? As he did?
She was nothing like me.
He remembered his deep disappointment when she admitted that she held no further ambition, that she herself was amazed to have gained such authority. A highly ranked Sultansworn serving the Sultana, answering to Jenlyns himself, Coatleque seemed befuddled as to how she had stumbled upon such a position of power. All the things that drew him to her at the start, had proven false. And yet…
She loved me.
Jameson hissed as he felt the bite of incisors upon his skin. He took a handful of hair and pulled the Duskwight off of him. Her teeth gleamed white as a hungry smile split the Elezen’s dark face. That look of lust in her eyes, it was one he knew well. He had seen it in so many others, for it was an easy thing to manipulate. And yet, he had no inclination to take part in such a diversion now.
“If you like it violent,†the woman purred as she clawed her way up his chest, her nails drawing red lines upon his flesh. “We can play rough and tumble.â€
The Midlander simply sneered at her.
“Just why are you here, lordling?†she barked back impatiently. When he did not answer, she snorted and rolled off of him, grabbing for a thin wooden pipe, taking a deep draw of it. As she exhaled the scented fumes again, her vexation melted off her face.
Jameson could still feel the thin rows of welts where her nails had raked against his torso. The Duskwight had not been the only woman to mark him so.
I could have come to love her, he tried to convince himself, his eyes fluttering closed. The vision of auburn locks washed away like ocean waves, leaving behind a field of golden hair, one that he had pulled free from their prison of tight braids. He could recall the softness of her bared shoulders, the prominence of her collarbone, and the fullness of her breasts. And yet, there was no stirring of lust within him.
“Pity is the death of desire.â€
In the moons that they had slept beneath the same roof, Edda Eglantine had seen him brought low, trembling upon his knees. The pains of withdrawals from whatever cursed alchemical toxins Banurein had pumped him full of had robbed him of his precious control through many nights. And Edda had discovered him on one such an occasion despite his efforts. He hated showing such weakness in front of anyone, much less one he was engaged to marry. But then that exasperating enigma of a woman would show glimpses of wisdom and strength where he had expected none.
"I do not pity you. I do not pity myself. Pity is for those who do not fight."
The marriage to the Eglantine was only the first step to his return. After losing everything in Ul’dah, he had come to Ishgard to start anew, empowered by his engagement and invigorated by fresh opportunities. He was ready to play the game again, he was ready to regain what was lost. It was in his blood.
“Favor for favor.â€
Why had he not sent Coatleque away when she found him again? She would have only dragged him down, like links of chains wrapped around his ankles as he tried to swim to shore. Why had he not cut himself free of the woman? He needed to only say the right words. Even when he had returned from presumed death, and revealed his secret engagement to another, the damned Sultansworn refused to leave his side. He told her that he was engaged. He told he intended to make his marriage work for Edda's sake. And yet, he did not send her away.
It was then that Jameson rose and grabbed the Duskwight by the shoulders, throwing her down against the pile of pillows. The woman’s smile gleamed with impatience and she arched her back in anticipation. But it was not the view of the woman’s naked form that fed the fire that now burned in his chest. He leaned in, his body knew the motions; but it was another place, and another woman that he saw before his eyes.
Was the tease the game or the consequence? Was it worth the fall? He always loved taking risks, playing both sides. He had never wanted to make Coatleque a mistress, and yet the thought of her by his side, it pleased him. Perhaps his past was the weakness. He remembered enjoying the day they had spent in Fallguard. There was an air of comfort, warmth, and familiarity that brought back memories of their time together in the desert city. Flimsy things they were, he thought them unimportant to him, and yet they returned to him all the same to pull at his emotions.
“When I first came to you that night at the Bismark. It was not for distraction.â€
Then she shattered it all to pieces with her confession.
All those nights, all those talks, all the secrets they had shared, the violence, the laughter, the intimacy… they were all a lie. She did it to help his enemies break him.
He did not think. His past had been war. His reflex had been sharpened by conflict and ambition. And he had learned, painfully so, how he would pay for indecision born of empathy. Never again.
There was much blood upon her naked pale flesh, flowing freely from the deep cut upon her neck. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, and even as they began to lose their color, she stared to him. What else could he have done? She had betrayed him. The one woman he thought he could trust above all others, the first woman to whom he had confided in about his past, his insecurities, his plans for the future. They had even spoken of children...
What else could I have done?
It was with a guttural gasp that Jameson stumbled back, falling ungracefully backwards onto the floor. The Duskwight had been writhing beneath him, but he had been deaf to her moans and cries. His chest rose and fell with desperate breaths like a fish out of water, and his amber eyes stared in disbelief at the naked woman in front of him. There was no blood that soaked the silks around her.
The Elezen propped herself upon her elbows and gave him a perturbed look. “Perhaps you have had too much of the milk root, lordling.â€
“Get out,†he growled.
“But we were just getting to the--â€
“Get out!†he screamed, hurling the metal vase at the Duskwight. She bolted to her feet, cursing at him loudly in a tongue he did not bother to try and recognize. She snatched up the scattered pieces of clothing and left the room in a hurry.
For a long moment, no sound rose to the silk draped ceiling except heavy, stuttered breaths. But when the distant peal of the morning's second bell faded to an echo, the quiet muffled sounds of his weeping filled the heavy silence.
